


Clear as Scorch Marks

by doublejoint



Category: Bleach
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Bazz wants to fight. Cang refuses.
Relationships: Bazz-B/Cang Du
Kudos: 1
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2021: Apocalypse No





	Clear as Scorch Marks

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 25 of the February Ficlet Challenge: Explosion
> 
> brief sexual imagery, referenced character death

The first time Bazz sees Cang’s vollstandig, it’s from far away, a sudden shattering, an explosion of reiatsu and material, flaking away like glass but opaque as iron. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so dull, if there were a bit more flair--a bit more of a flare, something more variable than gravity to it. (Does he have a tendency to prefer things his own way? Nah, tendency is a weak word with nothing behind it; he definitely prefers things his own way, because it’s better.) 

But an explosion is an explosion, and it had caught his attention, and standing in the middle of the wreckage, a radius of debris and blood, is Cang, staring straight ahead.

“Here to steal my kill?”

“Nah,” says Bazz. “But I want in next time.”

Cang shrugs, as if to tell him to get there faster next time, and Bazz clenches his teeth.

“Asshole.”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Cang.

He won’t look over his shoulder as he walks away, and that’s the worst of all this. He won’t acknowledge Bazz, like he knows that’s what’s going to get him worse.

* * *

Cang is slippery, an eel through Bazz’s fingers before he can activate his powers, and it makes him think unpleasant thoughts about being younger and far more out of control, clumsy and not powerful enough to make up for the lack of precision with sheer force, where the target doesn’t matter because the range of his attack is big enough to catch it if he’s even close to the right general direction. The thing is, Bazz doesn’t know if he wants to burn Cang or catch him or make him explode again, melt him like a furnace or light him up like a firework. 

Maybe it’s all of that. The words struggle to be said, squirming on his tongue. He follows Cang on a mission when he’s not supposed to.

(“This is a test for me,” Cang says. “Not for you.”

Bazz stays, and Cang will not dissuade him further.

“If we’re together now, we ought to stay that way.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound?” says Bazz.

Cang ignores him.)

His efficiency is brutal, any spare time spent explaining or expressing his disgust, not making things fun the way Bazz likes to; he’s destroyed all of the remaining hollow targets just as Bazz is chasing his second, curling flames around it in ribbons. And Cang watches him, and Bazz drags it out just a little longer. He still only needs one finger; a target like this is not worth any more.

“Do you think you passed?” says Bazz.

“If this was a test of patience,” says Cang.

The lie is clear as scorch marks on a white sheet.

* * *

“Fight me,” Bazz says, curling his fingers.

“No,” says Cang. “We can’t.”

He wants to, though, a flicker in his eyes, a reflection of the flame, a lack of patience--he can quell his urges only so long, can’t he? What the hell is beyond that facade, beyond the weight and force of metal, the piercing neat shattering, the dismissiveness without heat? This is different than being rejected by Jugo, fingers reaching for his face but stopping short of curling under his chin, rather than a slap in the face. 

“They don’t need to know.”

“They’ll know.”

The bait dangles, spinning in front of Cang’s eyes; if he were a cat his tail would be twitching, but he stares as if at an impasse. Again, Bazz thinks of fist against fist, the blow of his knuckles against Cang’s, the shock of the impact, blood on his hands, the feeling of kicking sheet metal. He wants to tell Cang to come get it. It would be so fucking great.

* * *

It’s not that Bazz would rather fuck him than fight him, but if that’s the alternative he’s going to get, it’s the alternative he’ll take. He won’t settle, but it’s a damn good option, Cang’s thighs, hard muscle and hard metal, wrapped around his waist, squeezing, the scar on Cang’s mouth rough under his lips and teeth. Cang is wary of his fingers at first, but lets Bazz at it, and Bazz doesn’t need any set of bestowed flames to do this, just his own well-honed skills.

“You’re pleased with yourself,” Cang says, but his face is flushed and he’s breathing hard and he’s so obviously pleased with Bazz.

Even when he’s frowning, his mouth feels so good, so unexpectedly warm and non-metallic, his tongue rolling, not fair, and when Bazz kisses himself off his puckered lips, his bitter tongue, fuck. He’s pleased with Cang, too (even if it’s more so with himself). Cang bares his teeth, like a wolf, like the guts of a machine, rolling gears.

There’s no better high, nothing that burns as good, as giving as much pleasure as he takes, except maybe a damn good fight. But someday this will all be over; someday they’ll fling aside the rules and fight, hand-to-hand. Maybe Bazz will even let Cang be the first to fight him.

* * *

The last time Bazz sees Cang’s vollstandig, it’s already too late. He had thought he would not see it; he has already assumed the worst. But there is the shattering and cracking, mixed with the sound of ice, a fitting prize for someone like Cang, not that he’d had any success in controlling that bankai. But his defeat, even if momentary, will be punished. Somewhere along the line, his iron will shatter further, in an even uglier, more brutally minimal explosion. 

Together in death, that’s what he wants, right? Better to be together alive. Better to be alone alive, to burn through the air and slice through melting ice, to rob people of their breath, to make explosions that pop and sizzle and echo longer. They won’t get their fight in, but Bazz had known that already. 

A maybe, a half-chance, is too weak and flickering for him, but maybe--maybe he’ll stand firm, get lucky. 

Even if Bazz felt like it, Cang wouldn’t want him to count on that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
